Jem's Bird

I have come home to Baker Street to find many strange sights awaiting me upon opening our sitting-room door. It is not unusual to find Holmes being assaulted by a large prize-fighter, or entertaining foreign potentates, or even idly shooting the initials of our queen into the wall with his pistol. However, all these adventures seem well within the bounds of my companion’s extraordinary character, and I have come to take such surprises in stride.


But the day I found Holmes feeding a stray tomcat a saucer of milk on our dining- table, I was truly taken aback. I had never seen my friend display any regard for animals whatsoever beyond their significance to his cases, and yet here he was, stroking and caressing the cat fondly while it hungrily lapped at the milk.


“I’d opened the window to clear the room from my last chemical failure,” he explained, nodding toward the deal table, “and then went down to tell Mrs. Hudson that we’d need to have the plasterer round again. When I came back upstairs, this little fellow was on your writing-desk.”


I looked at the cat unenthusiastically. The “little fellow” was not so much a large cat as a small panther, sleek and black, with splashes of white at his chest, his forepaws, and the tip of his tail. And yet, for all his graceful elegance, I could tell by the scratches on his ears and the roughness of his coat that he must be one of London’s many feral cats, albeit a healthy and vigorous specimen of the variety.


I was reminded immediately of Poe’s black cat in his story of the same name, but knew better than to say so. “You know how Mrs. Hudson feels about pets,” I said, frowning.


“Yes, I often wondered what became of that dog you mentioned,” Holmes said absently, still smiling at the cat as he patted its head affectionately. The cat ignored him, continuing to lap up the milk at an alarming rate.


“Holmes, I’ve told you before,” I sighed impatiently. “When I said ‘I keep a bull pup,’ I meant –”


“Yes, yes, that sharp temper of yours. Really, Watson, your temper is quite mild compared to –”


“And the beast tracked dirt across my papers!” I cried. I had moved to my writing desk and was alarmed to see large paw-prints soiling a week’s worth of work.


“His name is Sebastian,” Holmes said mildly.


“My editor won’t appreciate – Sebastian?”


“He looks like a Sebastian, don’t you think?”


“Holmes, surely you are not proposing to keep this animal!”


Holmes looked up at me, his face registering polite bafflement. “Why not?”


“Well, for one thing, he’s a wild beast. He might be acting tame now because it suits his purposes, but –”


“Really, Watson, you surprise me. He’s a perfect gentleman, aren’t you, Sebastian?” he finished with a chuckle, as he scratched the cat behind the ear. The cat had finished the milk but continued to lick the saucer, as if in the hopes that someone might get the hint and provide him with more.


“He’s a perfect glutton,” I said. “No gentleman would behave like that.”


“He’s just hungry,” Holmes replied. “Ring for Mrs. Hudson to bring up more milk, will you, old boy?”


“You don’t mean that Mrs. Hudson approves of this animal?” I said, ringing the bell nevertheless. I reasoned that perhaps I could get our landlady to put her foot down. After all, she had been quite clear on her “no pets” rule when we signed our lease, metaphorical dogs notwithstanding.


However, it turned out that Mrs. Hudson had not only provided the first saucer of milk, she brought up a few fish heads for “the poor little thing” with the second saucer, as well as a blanket and a ball of wool. As Holmes and our landlady fussed and cooed over this animal, who began to devour the second saucer of milk with mercenary relish, I shook my head in defeat and retreated upstairs to my room, where I could safely digest my feelings.


My sharp temper was about to manifest itself; my hands shook and my fists clenched as I thought of Holmes stroking that cat.


I knew all too well why I had hated this cat on sight. It had nothing to do with my feelings for cats; I was jealous, and violently so. This feral street tom was receiving the caresses and affection I craved. Granted, I would not have wanted a saucer of milk or a ball of wool, but I would have loved to feel Holmes’ hands stroke my back, or to hear his voice grow soft when addressing me.


I had long known of my unnatural desires and had worked hard to keep them from Holmes, especially when my feelings inevitably became fixed upon him as the object of my affections. I would have risked my reputation and my freedom to give myself to him, but I knew that he abhorred any form of emotional attachment, and so I limited my sexual activity to my hand and my fantasies, which became steadily more tortured as my intimacy with Holmes increased. I feared that soon I might have to find other lodgings, but the thought of leaving him only made things worse.


I regarded myself in my dressing-table mirror: a man of thirty-odd years who was jealous, almost to the point of violence, over a simple tomcat.


“John Watson,” I said wearily, “you are a pathetic creature.”


I laid down upon my bed, staring disconsolately at the ceiling. I had often, in fevered nightmares, imagined what it might be like if Holmes’ emotional reserve slipped, causing him to fall in love with some beautiful female client, or, worse still, some handsome police inspector, leaving me out in the cold because I had not the courage to tell him my heart.


Well, I thought with a rueful grin, at least it’s only a cat. Even if it ends up sleeping in his bed, it won’t be a sexual relationship.


I have been cursed from early childhood with a vivid, even lurid, imagination, and suddenly I could envision myself as a cat, curled up against Holmes as he lay naked in his bed, his long white fingers absently stroking my fur. The thought was enough to send the blood rushing to my loins, and I shivered in pleasure as I brushed my fingers over the bulge in my trousers.


Ordinarily I would not indulge myself thus in the middle of the day, but the memory of Holmes’ graceful hands caressing that feline was too much, and soon I had unbuttoned my flies and was working my cock disgracefully, pulling at it with all the fervour of a schoolboy as I closed my eyes, trying to imagine Holmes’s fingers at my shaft, licking my lips and fantasizing about the kisses I so deeply desired but would never know.


I knew that mere tugging would not be enough this time, and so I paused long enough to divest myself of my trousers and my undergarments, and splayed my legs wide as I laid back down. I took my throbbing prick in one hand, and with the other hand I reached lower, squeezing and fondling my ballsac, wondering what it would feel like to have Holmes’ lips upon it, perhaps even have his tongue wander lower …


I tickled my nether hole with a single finger and gasped aloud in pleasure. “Oh, my dear Holmes,” I moaned. “How I should love you to take me.” I slowly worked my finger inwards, frigging myself gently while still pulling at my cock with my other hand. I could feel my climax nearing, and I arched my back and pushed another finger inside myself, my other hand speeding up its rhythm. “Oh, Holmes,” I panted, “my darling Holmes …”


I did not hear the door open, but I could not help but hear the startled gasp from my companion’s lips as he entered and heard his own name.


My eyes flew open, but I found I could move no other muscle, frozen there on my bed, my legs spread wide, with two fingers up my arse and my other hand gripping my rapidly wilting prick. For what seemed like an eternity, I stared up at him helplessly as he regarded me and my singular position.


Then, with a look I shall never forget, he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, locking it before turning back to me.


“All these years and I never knew,” he murmured softly, undoing his cravat. “My dear, dear, Watson, you never cease to amaze me.”


I could not believe my ears, or my eyes. Far from being disgusted, Holmes seemed amused – and aroused.  I watched him with mounting excitement as he began to unbutton his collar and his cuffs. “H – Holmes?” I stammered. “What are you –” I forced myself to stop that idiotic line of questioning; any fool could see what was happening, and Holmes shook his head, his thin lips drawing into a sultry smile.


“I think you know the answer to that,” he said, and fairly leapt onto the bed and into my arms. Our lips met immediately, and our tongues wrestled deliciously as I clumsily helped him off with his waistcoat and shirt while he unbuttoned his trousers. Our mouths were still locked together as we stripped each other bare and our hands began exploring each others’ bodies. I had often observed the delicacy of Holmes’ touch upon his scientific instruments; now that touch was upon my skin, and my nerves tingled as he ran his fingers over my shoulders and chest, tickling my nipples and caressing my ribcage, working their way down to where my cock now stood throbbing, fully recovered and once more demanding attention. He flashed me the briefest of smiles before devouring my prick whole, sucking it into his mouth with such rapid passion that I had to bite the inside of my lip to keep from spending myself then and there. His lips gripped my shaft firmly, sliding up and down its whole length, as Holmes reached beneath and began fondling my ballsac with one hand. The other hand went lower, and soon I felt his fingertip upon my puckered opening.


Slowly, he released my cock from his mouth, giving it a playful lick upon the tip that made me groan in pleasure. “Would it be too impertinent of me to ask if you had any lubricant to hand?” he murmured, his voice unusually husky.


“The beside table,” I moaned, as his fingertip insinuated itself teasingly at my sphincter. “Quickly, please; I need you.”


“I was able to deduce that,” Holmes chuckled, taking the tin of salve from the drawer and unscrewing the lid. “But slowly, darling. I want to savour this.” He inhaled the scent from the tin. “Chamomile and … rosemary?”


“Yes,” I said numbly. I knew that this must be a dream, and prayed I would never wake. I watched as Holmes held the tin to his nose, inhaling deeply.


“Quite aromatic,” he said, smiling. “And may I take it that you’re not a virgin, John?” Two salve-slickened fingers entered me, brushing up against my prostate and setting my nerves aflame.


“I’m not,” I panted, “but it’s been forever. Take me. Please.”


“Mmmm, not quite yet, my love,” he purred, and bending between my legs, returned his mouth to my groin, this time laving my ballsac with slow, long strokes of his tongue before working his way down. When I felt his tongue at my entrance, I needed to pull the pillow over my head to stifle my moans. Holmes licked my hole with all the enthusiasm Sebastian had shown that saucer of milk, and soon I had become insensible under my companion’s ministrations, writhing in delight as he kissed and licked my most secret parts with wanton abandon, all the while gently caressing my rampant prick with his long fingers. Just as I neared completion, he withdrew his mouth and stood once more, adding another generous dollop of salve to my hole, then setting the tip of his prick upon my entrance.


Holmes lifted the pillow off my head. “I want to see your face, my dear,” he whispered. I looked down to see the largest, longest cock I had ever seen, a beautiful brownish-red, uncircumcised and surrounded by a coarse bush of coal-black hair at its base, poised at my hole, ready to invade.


“Sweet mother of God,” I breathed. “You’re enormous.”


“You’re rather well-endowed yourself,” he murmured, taking my cock in both hands. “And your arsehole is the sweetest I have ever tasted.”


“It’s all yours.” I rubbed my hole against the tip of his penis, endeavouring in vain to impale myself upon him, but he pulled away teasingly.


“I want to hear you beg again,” he chuckled throatily. “Tell me how much you’ve wanted me.”


“Please, Holmes,” I gasped. “Please don’t torture me. I need you inside me.” I locked my legs behind his back and pulled him towards me. “I want you to …” I blushed, suddenly unsure. He might enjoy the action, but would the coarse language disgust him? Or would it excite him as it had excited my last lover, so long ago?


“Let me hear you say the word, John,” he answered hoarsely. “Tell me what you want me to do.”


“I want you to fuck me,” I panted.


“Say please, John.”


“Fuck me, please.” My voice had shrunk to a whisper, and I pleaded with my eyes as well as with my mouth. “I need you to fuck me, Holmes. Please.” My hole twitched achingly as Holmes rubbed the tip of his pego against it, then pushed himself slightly inside.


I moaned and tossed my head back and forth as he ever so slowly pressed his whole length inside me, filling me so completely that I felt the tip of his prick might poke out of my mouth were he to go any deeper inside.


“Is that what you like, John?” he murmured, touching my cheek. I could tell that he was straining to keep himself calm; his voice quivered with excitement. Full as I was, I tightened my inner muscles, squeezing his prick even as he moved inside of me, and I was rewarded indeed: the great detective’s reserve finally cracked, and he threw back his head, his hips pumping beyond his control. “Oh, yes, John,” he groaned, pulling fiercely at my cock in time to his thrusts. I squeezed even tighter, caressing his throbbing rod until I swear I could feel the veins upon it. “John … you … I … can’t …” his speech dissolved into animal grunts and groans as he pounded himself into me, his cock jumping as it pumped his seed deep into my bowels. His hand gripped tighter upon my own prick, but I was determined not to climax yet; as Holmes sank down atop me, panting like a spent fish, I slid out from underneath him, and, raising his buttocks slightly with a pillow, used his own semen to lubricate his hole.


I did not tease him as he did me, but plunged in straight away, taking him as I had so often dreamed of doing. I knew I could not last long in his tight heat, and so I made the most of it, pulling myself out almost to the tip and then back in to the base, plunging in and pulling out as Holmes moaned and squirmed beneath me, his buttocks glistening with sweat. All too soon, I shuddered to completion within him, my fingers gripping his backside so tightly I knew there would be bruises there in the morning.


We fell on to the bed together, in an untidy, sticky heap of arms and legs, our lips meeting in a trembling kiss. Holmes wrapped his long arms around me and pulled me atop him, fondly ruffling my hair with a chuckle.


“Good old Watson,” he sighed. “I never knew – you certainly did well at hiding your secret.”


“And you say I’m no good at dissimulation,” I laughed softly. “But talk about not knowing! Holmes, I never in my life thought …” I shrugged. “I suppose I should have guessed, with your aversion to women. But you also claimed to have no use for the softer emotions –”


Holmes stiffened in my arms, and with a sinking feeling, I realized that I had presumed too much from this encounter. Sex was one thing; I would be mad to assume that my rational, unemotional friend would actually …


As he did so often, Holmes read my thoughts. “My dear Watson,” he said in a reproachful tone, “you should know me better than that. This … this was not just sex. I do …” he took a deep breath. “I do … love you, John. There, I’ve said it, but I’m afraid I shan’t say it all that often. Emotions do not come easily to me, but you should know that I hold you in the highest esteem. I never believed in love, but you … you’re the exception to the rule,” he finished softly.


I blushed fiercely at my companion’s speech; never before had he shown me so much of his heart. His hesitancy of speech and the slight tremble of his voice told me as much of his sincerity as his words, as he held me tight to his breast and nuzzled my neck.


“You don’t mind if I tell you that I love you from time to time?” I asked, somewhat timidly.


“It’s not necessary, but it is … nice to hear you say it,” Holmes admitted.


I kissed him tenderly, taking the time to savour the taste of his lips. “I do love you, my darling Sherlock.”


Holmes made a face. “Please, John. I’ve never liked that name. ‘Holmes’ will do just fine.”


“But your brother –”


“Mycroft addresses me as such merely to annoy me. In fact, we –” he got no further, as we were interrupted by a dreadful caterwauling from beneath the bed, causing us both to jump to our feet.


Holmes got down on all fours, presenting an extremely enticing view as he peered under my bed. “Sebastian, old boy!” he cried. “Now how did you get in here? He must have come in with me before I shut the door.”


“You mean that animal was under the bed the whole time we –” I broke off as Holmes shot me a reproachful look.


“You don’t like cats,” he said. It sounded more like an accusation than a question.


“I never said that,” I protested, but the tone of my voice gave away my feelings.


With a frown, Holmes retreated under the bed and pulled Sebastian out. The creature purred and cuddled into his arms, and once again I felt a wave of irrational jealousy as I saw this creature in my lover’s arms. Holmes, of course saw my reaction and divined the reason immediately. He threw his head back, with his typical barking laugh, before setting the cat down on my bed and crossing over to me. He gently cupped my chin in his hands and drew my lips to his in a slow, courting kiss.


“My darling John,” said he, in a voice quite unlike his own, “no one could ever usurp the place you hold in my heart, no matter how furry and adorable.”


I felt quite dizzy at this admission, but sought to steady myself. Fortunately, this was as easy as gripping Holmes around his waist, which had the added benefit of bringing our naked bodies into closer contact. I smiled up into his eyes.


“If you really want to keep the animal,” I murmured, “I shall try to like him, for your sake.” I looked to where Sebastian had curled up on my pillow, already leaving some black hairs upon it. “But he sleeps in your bed,” I continued in my sternest voice. “After all, someone might as well have the use of it.”


“What do you mean?” Holmes asked. “I might like cats, but I do not wish to share my bed with one.”


I drew my love closer. “From now on,” I whispered, kissing his cheek, “you sleep with me.”


Sebastian had to duck under the bed once more as we fell onto it, and this time, I did not mind the feline witness to our lovemaking.


Let him watch; he might even learn a thing or two, I thought, as Holmes’ fingers once more began their exploration of my body.


That was the last articulate thought I remember having that evening.


As it happened, Sebastian did not end up sleeping in Holmes’ bed, escaping the next time we opened our sitting-room window. He did, however, visit from time to time for many years afterward, always managing to leave his muddy paw-prints upon the pages of my manuscripts.


I often wonder what my editor made of them.



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